Attack of the Miniature Plot Bunnies
by Savethellamas
Summary: A collection of unrelated Sherlock Holmes drabbles, no specific format.
1. Limits

I saw him running and I knew something was amiss.

Mr. Holmes does not run. He does not fear petty street criminals and it is not in his nature to flee. No matter the odds, the number of criminals, or the circumstances, he always pursues justice. My fellow Inspectors will verify this, for it is this desire to see the problem solved and the criminals apprehended that has proved just as useful to Scotland Yard as his formidable powers of deduction.

I indicated to my constables that we should follow him. If he had finally met his match, it was our duty to assist him in any way possible. The man may not be aware of his limits, but that does not mean that he doesn't have them.

And so, we ran after him, hoping that this would not be the time when he would find that out for himself.

* * *

In case anyone cares, the Inspector is not meant to be anyone mentioned in the Canon-just a random Yarder. Though if you were thinking of Lestrade or Gregson while reading, that's fine too. :)


	2. Abbreviations

Mrs. Hudson would be annoyed when she saw the masses of case records strewn about the apartment, but I continued with my task anyway. I couldn't find the file I needed and I was growing more and more frustrated by the second. The doctor's system of organization was beyond irritating. EMPT? BLAC? What in blazes could these cryptic abbreviations mean? I had tried every combination of words I could think of (Even Moriarty Picks Tulips? Because Lestrade Ate Carrots?) but nothing seemed to fit. I never dreamed that allowing Watson to organize my papers would end in so much aggravation!


	3. Loyalty, Part 1 of 2

"Now then, which of you shall be the first to die?" the criminal cackled, stroking his revolver lovingly.

"Leave Watson out of this-it's me you want, correct?"

"Oh, quite so, Mr. Holmes. I assure you, I have no wish to do harm to the doctor if it can be avoided."

"Then let him go. Now."

"Holmes, you can't expect me to just leave you here to die!"

"Stay out of this, Doctor!" the detective roared.

"Dear me, Mr. Holmes, you shouldn't shout at your friend. Do you want his last memory to be that angry expression of yours?"

"But you said-"

"I said I didn't wish to harm him-if it could be avoided. But I'm afraid it can't. Surely you don't think I'd be stupid enough to leave a witness behind!"

"For God's sake, let him go! I swear to you, he'll leave, he shan't tell anyone. Just let him live! Please, you have me, what else can you possibly want? Why get more blood on your hands?"

"Well, I suppose you have a point, there's no need for useless bloodshed. But shouldn't you ask your friend what he thinks first? I doubt that he'll be agreeable to your proposal."

"He's right, old fellow. I will not abandon you."

Before Holmes could protest, the night was shattered by a loud bang.


	4. Loyalty, Part 2 of 2

A continuation from the last chapter...

* * *

He crumpled to the ground instantly. Holmes rushed to his side but it did not take any great deduction to see that the man was beyond help.

"Good riddance," Holmes snarled, giving the corpse a forceful kick.

Inspector Stanley Hopkins rushed over to Holmes's side, observing the bullet wound for himself.

"Thank goodness," he sighed, "I was afraid that I was too late."

"You nearly were. Really Hopkins, Scotland Yard is going to have to work on its efficiency. I sent a telegram asking for reinforcements two hours ago!"

"My dear fellow, you're being too harsh. The traitor walked right into our trap. He's dead. Thanks to the Yard, you shall never have to contend with his villainy again."

"Yes, because Hopkins arrived at the absolute last second and managed to get off a lucky shot, I suppose that means I should be on my knees, singing songs of his cleverness and valor."

"At least we're both still alive, Holmes. That's the most important thing."

"No thanks to you, Watson! One more blunder from the Yard, one more minute wasted by your precious Hopkins and it would be you lying there! How could you? He gave you the chance to run, man, why didn't you take it?"

"Holmes, surely you don't think I'd be stupid enough to leave a friend behind…"


	5. Tutus

Holmes noticed me tiptoeing down the stairs with my old service revolver. It was very fortunate that the two criminals who had invaded our Baker Street rooms had not also seen me. Their backs remained turned. My friend knew that he had to keep it that way if I was to have any chance of helping him.

"Do you know something gentlemen?" he began "I really don't understand why you became involved with the criminal business. Why with your physiques, you could have easily been ballet dancers, the pair of you."

Ballet dancers? Was Holmes _trying_ to get himself killed?

The two thugs were evidently as confused as I was. "Us, ballerinas?" the taller one snorted, "That's for girls, that is,"

"An' I like my job jus' the way it is! At least I don't 'ave to go wearing a frilly pink poof every day," the other one joined in.

"Well, I am sure you two wouldn't have to wear the tutus, if that's what you mean,"

"Forget them toot-toots, Mr. 'Olmes, I still don't want to be a bloody dancer,"

"No? That's a shame. You could undoubtedly become quite famous. Not to mention all the pretty women you'd meet."

While the buffoons' heads were filled with notions of fame, fortune, and pink tutus, I reached the sitting room. Trying to contain my laughter at the absurdity of the whole situation, I snuck up behind one of the two men.

"When you say pretty women," the thug speculated, "Do you mean-ARGH!" His question was cut short as the butt of my gun came down on his head. The same fate befell his friend and both men fell to the ground, unconscious.

"Watson, I am beginning to fear for the criminal class of today," Holmes observed solemnly, "If these two are representative of the intelligence of the whole, I shall soon be out of work."


	6. Shock

Mrs. Watson had not been surprised when her son, following in the footsteps of his father before him, decided to sign up for the Army surgeon course at Netley. Nor was it a great shock when he announced his impending departure to India. She knew that her dear little John had grown into a brave man, one who was not content to sit at home and let others do the fighting when he could be of use. Protests for his safety would have only been in vain-he was going and that was that. She watched him leave, hiding the moisture in her eyes and not noticing the traitorous tear running down her fearless soldier's cheek.

Waiting for news was always immensely difficult, but that did not surprise her. She had known from the start that it could not be easy.

But she had not expected the telegram from Peshawar, telling her that her seemingly untouchable son had been hit. And none of her friends or relations had been prepared for the attack of brain-fever that followed.

The second telegram arrived on the day of the funeral. The mourners could only hope that someone in heaven would think to tell Mrs. Watson that her son's wounds were not fatal.

Dr. Watson would later attribute his own illness and lengthy convalescence to enteric fever in his memoirs. This falsehood was not created out of a desire to forget his mother or to insult her memory, but rather out of an unwillingness to relive the guilt that had haunted his mind and body for so many months.


End file.
